Life – Page 82 – Nourish-n-Cherish

The Tongue-Tied Commenter

The father is an obsessive news watcher and every season sees a different upheaval. The news, for its share, never ceases to entertain him.

I remember, years ago, when he had his opinions typed out and sent to the newspaper. He beamed when they were published in the newspapers. He proudly showed the piece of paper on which he had typed it out using the pen-name he had given himself so people would believe him. I suppose it was something, given that the editors combed through hundreds of letters to the editor and posted a select few.

The advent of the Internet might be a blessing in many ways, but it has made this man’s life busier than ever. There is new content being posted all the time waiting for his review and approval. How many articles jostle for his comments and views? It is tiring work sometimes, but the septuagenarian keeps at it. He painstakingly lingers on the keyboard, his face screwed up with intense concentration, and uses his index fingers to type out his thoughts. As his comments rush out, his tongue peeps out of his mouth to see a bit of typing action. It means he is focused. Before long, one sees scathing remarks, where his dry wit shines through. It is a pity Literature students don’t comb the comments section on Indian newspaper sites. The prose there is littered with the profuse, the exaggerated, the new word that came through in the word-a-day email: it is all there and more. I have tried telling him that there being no limit to the real estate on the internet, all his comments will be published, but he shakes his head sanguinely and explains to the idiot child, “No. That cannot be true child. If that is the case, how come my comments don’t appear immediately? I get an email stating that the comment has been approved, which means that only valid points are being published.”

There is another change: he now boldly uses his own name, links to his Facebook profile (much to the mother’s chagrin, since they have one profile and it looks like she is typing the theses. “As if I have no work!” she says disapprovingly). A change that I am not exactly proud of, given that India’s tolerance seems to be dipping.

The last time he visited us, the 3G scam was the topic of conversation. This time, it is the sliding value of the Indian Rupee against the dollar.

The markets have been volatile as a result of which the Indian rupee lost about a third of its value. Inflation has been on the rise and Indian economists are clawing at arguments and counter-arguments to see what the solution is. The father, the commenter, has been writing furiously on varied sites about how the country came to be in such a sorry state with all the time he can spare. Sometimes, another octogenarian somewhere will ‘Like’ his comment, and that evening he is a pleased man. “I told you people read all the comments.” he says.

Even he had no comment to make to this posting however.

http://articles.economictimes.indiatimes.com/2013-09-02/news/41688915_1_rupee-madhya-pradesh-congress-appreciating-dollar

The Madhya Pradesh Unit of the Congress ( A leading political party in India) came up with the argument (pasted below) for the sliding rupee and was evidently so pleased with itself for thinking up something this brilliant, that it went and posted it on Facebook for all to see:

“The value of rupee is the same in India… Only the value of dollar has increased… The value of rupee has not fallen. How many of you people go to the market to buy dollars? How many of you come back with dollars? The value of dollar has increased only for those who buy dollars.”

A great philosophy that is not being given the credit it deserves. But such is life. I am sure that the father would have thought up something appropriate on the topic by the time I roll around in the evening, but till then, the article languishes without his comments. It seems a pity since it seems to be taking heat from a large number of people and there might have been a chance of someone reading his comments on the subject.

I saw this meme on my google plus feed and thought it most coincidental that it should appear the day I am writing a post on comments (I could not find the original author of this one to credit him or her, but I truly laughed at it….so, whoever you are, thank you.)

The Intelligence Behind the Mattress

I recently checked out a mattress for a friend on my laptop. I mean I clicked on the links sent to me, saw the images and read the reviews. Here is my plea to all you companies out there that use my rich browsing history to guide me to the right path of retail therapy: Please stop. I am not planning to buy a mattress. Really. Believe me. My friend already bought a mattress, so I really am in no real need of even checking one out. Thank You.

I actually have a very funny story involving all the different mattresses in the home that I plan to buckle down and write in the next few months. Should I take pictures of all the mattresses in my home and post it on Facebook? You can then scrape the images most popularly posted and send that to advertising companies and they can in turn peddle sheets and pillow cases instead of mattresses on my Facebook feed. Wait. I remember seeing pictures of Sheets and Comforters too.

I appreciate all the help honestly. I think though that we may have a little of too much intelligence floating around the web. Which is why, i sometimes like to linger on the idiotic ones: trying to recreate the algorithms that figured that one out. It is a fun game and hugely entertaining not to mention gives us the luxury of wasting our time. Once, I was urged to send a friend of mine roses on her birthday. Freshly plucked they claimed to be too. All I could think of was this wonderful conversation we had in that friend’s garden when we were about eight or nine years old and she told me how much she hated to see flowers plucked from their plants.

So, I can’t say that I am not glad that Facebook decided to stop peddling physical gifts that no one wants.

http://news.cnet.com/8301-1023_3-57599947-93/facebook-stops-peddling-physical-gifts-no-one-wants/

You would be right in scratching your chin at that one. I don’t know what that sentence means: Will or won’t I miss the advertisements? I don’t know because the one about sending flowers made me smile thinking of us looking for lady bugs in the flower patch and talking of this and that, but it also detracts from whatever I am looking for. Which is nothing. So I suppose I won’t miss them.

The Athletic Girls

The niece was a-visiting for the summer. She is a year older than my daughter, and the cousins spent hours dawdling, drawing, ‘illustrating my books’, reading and watching shows on Television. The husband looked at them lolling around and decided that what the girls required was a severe physical regimen and enrolled them in a Badminton camp not far from home. The girls were excited enough about it and got ready on time. There was a lot of noise about backpacks and water bottles and questions about whether they would need Gatorade etc. In all the melee, I was shrewd enough to notice that we did not have badminton rackets for the girls. Ask anybody. If you need to learn badminton, you need badminton rackets.

I walked swiftly to the car wondering whether we had enough time to stop at a store and pick up the rackets without being late for the first day of class. I just put on my seatbelt when my athletic daughter piped, “Don’t worry ma! I found the rackets. Come! Let’s go.”

Perplexed is the word I am looking for here. You see? This precious daughter can’t find a spoon if it is sitting on her plate in front of her. There have been times when I’ve sent her upstairs to fetch something with specific instructions. “Go to your room. Turn on the light. Turn to the right. Look near the bookcase, there is a box. In that box, you will find a pair of scissors. Bring it.”

“Amma….I don’t need instructions like that! I know where the box is.” Sassy Tasha.

A minute later, “Errm. Amma, have you moved the box?”

“No!”

“I can’t see it there.”

“Did you check near the shelf?”

“YESSS!” Irritated Polly

“Isn’t it there? Near the shelf. Check behind the door.”

“NO!”

So, I thump upstairs moaning and walk into the room, turn right and there to the left of the bookcase is a box containing a pair of scissors. I turn around with a question mark and an exclamation mark on my face. The daughter says, totally unabashed “OH! To the left of the bookcase, I looked here – on the right.”

This girl found badminton rackets in the home when I thought we didn’t have any usable ones? Fishy. So, I heaved myself out of the car and asked her to show me the rackets. She proudly held up two Wilson tennis rackets.

We were running late to a class on the first day, and yet, I had to laugh at this. I gave myself a face-palm and bundled her off to the car. All this while, if you will notice the niece is nowhere to be seen. So, I finally holler for her and ask her what is holding her back, and she says, “One minute! I am trying to decide whether to take mixture or chips for snacks!”

Priorities Ladies & Gentlemen. Priorities.

Badminton Rackets — Playing badminton with tennis rackets

The American Badminton Coaches, however, are a sturdy breed. They got these girls to establish contact between the shuttle-cock and the right kind of racket at the end of it all.

The TRUCKERS

Have you ever done something for an admiring audience? Something mundane that you brilliantly execute in front of your admirers? You feel pretty good that you consider it mundane and therefore a little embarrassed at all the rosy-eyed attention, but a trifle pleased with yourself that what for you is simple, is so inspirational in others.

I am sure that is pretty much how the truck driver felt. A little embarrassed at the amount of attention his job was drawing and then a tiny glow of satisfaction at the admiring audience. The truck-driver was able-bodied enough though his stomach was beginning to look prosperous. He looked reasonably happy. In other words, a person one might have passed on the street without stopping to remember. Like a wet umbrella on a rainy day.

I need to set a context I see: The day was cloudy and the son was strapped in a stroller slightly against his will. But once the stroller started rolling, he sat back for a merry ride and what an experience it turned out to be! We had not really expected such a huge truck to come rolling on the road. As far as trucks go, this one was an eel and a whale all rolled together. It had at least 18 wheels, painted a brilliant green and had two huge containers strapped on its back, with another motorized lift at the end of the carrier of the truck. The truck driver was to drop off the huge containers to some building and we were walking right in front of that building. The truck stopped on the island in the middle of the road, and the operations began. The truck driver (it seems wrong to not give him an exalted title, maybe THE TRUCKER) got down and then lowered the machinery at the back of the truck single-handedly, fork-lifted the huge container onto the machinery and made off to deliver the thing.

The operation lasted less than twenty minutes and he obstructed three cars for a period of 30 seconds during the whole operation. THE TRUCKER then gave us a friendly wave with a sheepish grin that made the little feller in the stroller grin shyly too and he was off.

I had to sizzle back to the operation of unloading a few sacks in New Delhi a few years ago (Please refer to point #4 in the post: https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/2008/03/05/traffic-absolutely-rules-in-delhi/) .

The truck driver there was not able-bodied enough, and his stomach looked like it could have done with another few parathas; but he looked like a man ready to wreak havoc on a busy interstate road.

He first parked his vehicle diagonally across the road. This enabled him to obstruct traffic flowing in both directions. The traffic was comprised of fellow trucks, cars, motorbikes, cycles, vans and buses. Not to mention some buffaloes and dogs.

Then, two helpers of his jumped down to aid things along.

What a fine mess the fellows made! They shouted at each other, shouted at folks walking past, shouted at folks trying to get to work in the morning and preened themselves in a mirror when they saw some girls staring to watch. All this while, folks are doing all they can to ease the flow. Motorcycles honked their way through and tried getting onto the dirt stretch on one side of the road to navigate the temporary bottleneck.

Finally, after about 32 minutes of a lot of shouting and yelling and cross-fighting and air-punching, three bags of potatoes were carried off by the helpers. How do I know they were potatoes? Because in all the melee of combing their hair for the girls, they had forgotten to fasten the string around the potato-sacks. The moment they carried one sack, it flopped and fell spectacularly in the middle of the road. The three fellows, aided by the restauranteur and his four helpers scrambled after all the potatoes, leaping under cars and running after poor children who managed to secure a few for their home, and finally got the potato delivery done.

I still don’t understand why, but the driver beamed with pride at the end of the delivery and made off.

The same job a different day………and so it goes. Fascinating deliveries both.

Nobody Appreciates a Bread-Runner

‘Unencumbered’ is the word I want when I set out to run a couple of miles in the morning. I like the cloudy days the best. You know the sun is going to come blazing through in its summer glory in a few hours, but you waddle on in the slightly chill morning laughing at all those people who will be running in the sun later. Ha!

I am almost out the door. The larks are singing and the birds are rising. The sleepy mother calls out to me and I ask her why she is up early. She shakes her head in a Duty-Beckons sort of way and asks, “Where are you going to run?”

“Just around the block. Through the fields. Fresh air is the key.” I was going to expand a little on the fresh-air-for-lung concept when I saw her mind already marching past towards her sense of purpose, so I shelved it for the moment.

“How far is Walgreens? Can’t you run to Walgreens instead?”

“Why?” I think I know where this is going, feign ignorance and hope for the best.

“There is no bread in the house, can you buy a loaf and run back?” she asks.

I nodded. After all the poor lady shook herself out of sleep to ask for a loaf of b.

Now, when I run, I snorkel away from signals like an octopus from a shark, but the Walgreens route shows me no such luxury. I stop at signals and run my way through. Pant my way through is more like it. I should be fitter than I am, but anyway…. I charge into Walgreens with the speed of a rhino chasing a dog, and stop as soon as I enter for I see 3 shocked customers, 1 shocked saleslady and 1 disapproving passport photo taker, who just had his subject turn away when he clicked to see the source of the commotion. Never have I made such a splash entering the store. I try to slink into the aisles, but the disapproving stares follow me even though people have started tending their own business.

I’d like to tell you that I bought the bread and ran back, for that is what I did. But I tell you. Till you run with a loaf of bread in your hand it is very hard to appreciate bread-runners. Let’s talk about positioning for one shall we?

How do you position a loaf of bread while running?

1) The nonchalant approach:

Just clutch the bread packet by its top and run. But it dangles from left to right like a pendulum clock and you land up swaying with it. Not to mention this looks very appealing to dogs out on a walk. Try it to see what I mean.

2) The Tin soldier with one arm approach:

Then I tried to keep the arm with the b.packet dangling limply by my side, while my other hand is clenched in a runners fist. I suppose this will work, but I realize this is like being in a march past where you are only allowed to swing one arm, but keep the rhythm of the other arm in sync with the left and right feet. It feels lopsided and half hearted and the bread packet looks stung for being left out of the festivities.

3) The Marcher Approach:

So I try running like a marcher. Swing both hands freely and run. I swear Bread packets have character. Mine did not take kindly to this swaying and to-ing and fro-ing. He, I mean it, scowled at me, kept banging me on my knees and generally creating havoc.

I scowled back, for I don’t approve of scowlers much – inanimate or otherwise. But this time, he (it!) slid from my hands. So, I had to take to walking a few steps, reassuring him(it) that all was well,and then run again.

Finally I tottered into my house clutching the bread only to have a voice ask, “Why did you buy bread now? There is enough for breakfast.”

A silent howl escaped me, but a louder, grandmotherly howl overtook mine and said, “No there isn’t! I asked her to buy it.”

Thank Heavens. And the next time you see a bread-runner, please stop and salute them. They deserve it.

Famous on Facebook?

It was a wonderful day. I was going about the joyous task of collecting garbage for the garbage truck the next day. I peeked into the kitchen trash and the fresh smells of carrot peels with coffee waste swirled up. I inhaled and exhaled with a rapidity that would have had a rabbit scuttling in fright. I then went for the lint removal in the washing machine dryer and added that non-smelling lot to the kitchen waste. It gave the gooey, soggy mess some texture. I grinned with an eye of a creative person and saw that what would really seal the deal was diapers. I charged for the diaper-genie in glee. To my dismay the diaper genie’s bag had burst and well, I shall spare the reading public some horrific images of the ensuing drama, but the important thing is to keep your positivity about you. I think the diapers added a new twist to the garbage scene. I had all the garbage collected – well all the garbage in the garbage cans collected, because there is garbage hiding all over the house, but that makes for another post on another day.

I suppose artists in the olden days used to get this sense of accomplishment when they saw beauty in the most mundane things and created entire worlds out of them. I felt a little like that, Of course, it was a harder path in the olden days for gratification was far from instant. You had to wait to be unearthed and then some before you could be liked. All that has changed.

With Instagram, stories were told through pictures. The golden era of ‘Being Liked’ was taken to a higher level. Suddenly people found that pictures of their feet in the sand was as wonderful as a sailboat badly framed in the distance when at the beach. They found that pictures of themselves in various poses was very welcoming indeed. The innate altruism in people kicked in and they strived to give their friends more and more of themselves. Just to give people what they liked, they uploaded more pictures. They were all consumed by a hungering public.

What if? What if? Creative people buzzed to see what they could do. Of course the common man had to fumble along trying to see what they could do in that regard. Voila! BinCam was born.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424127887324503204578318462215991802.html

BinCam looks just like your average trash bin, but with a twist: Its upper lid is equipped with a smartphone that snaps a photo every time the lid is shut. The photo is then uploaded to Mechanical Turk, the Amazon-run service that lets freelancers perform laborious tasks for money. In this case, they analyze the photo and decide if your recycling habits conform with the gospel of green living. Eventually, the photo appears on your Facebook page.

The artist in me needed practice, but with folks like BinCam helping me out, I am sure I shall compete with the best in the industry. We could run student competitions with scrapbooks of trash can pictures and children will soon be yearning to take out the garbage so they could compare notes.

I wonder how our garbage compares to real celebrity garbage. There can be a competition and the true winner becomes Famous on Facebook.

The possibilities are immense.

Gold (Just Gold)

When I say something that is Economic sounding, it is because I like to sound wise in these matters. But if you buy a cart of gold and dig up your home to hide it based on my advice, I would not advocate that. Just saying.

What is appealing about Gold is that supposedly the total weight of gold remains constant and will therefore retain its value regardless of currency fluctuations. Currency may come and currency may go. Dig up some coins from the Harappa civilization and try to use it in the laundromat slots and you will see what I mean. Gold, on the other hand, is not like that. Gold in the Harappan civilization was valuable and is valuable in the current world.

My alchemical knowledge being as good as my economic knowledge, I can categorically state that there is no way to manufacture Gold. I was surprised therefore, to hear that this restaurateur is trying to get us to ingest gold (I am not sure what his ultimate goal is, since what goes in comes out and all that) This restaurant sells gold-plated Dosa at an abominable price.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=vLOhR5oUNgk

http://itotd.com/articles/477/edible-gold/

If he is hoping humans would spout gold in the process, I hope not. I’ve seen people with golden teeth and my reactions have been civil on the outside, while the intestines coil and uncoil rapidly sending a “FLEE RIGHT NOW!” signal. It has something to do with the odd glint in the smile that gives the sinister-shading to the whole thing. I hope that doesn’t get in fashion anytime soon.

I read this a while ago and tucked it into a corner of my brain, but when I saw another news item that linked Gold, I could not pass it up.

There is one place on Earth where you can earn your weight in Gold. Dubai has offered its residents a gram of gold for every pound lost, and I was wondering whether the restaurateur would think of going there to stock up on supplies for his Dosas.

http://theweek.com/article/index/247191/could-dubais-gold-for-pounds-weight-loss-program-work

Ah well…The World is full of shining stories if you take the care to look for them.

Childhood Heroes and Cricket

Once upon a time, about a decade ago, or more precisely a few days after our wedding, the newly wed husband of mine was chatting up my younger brother. I lolled around in the background listening to the boys taking in the sights and talking about Cricket.

“Do you remember Kapil Dev’s batting in the 1983 World Cup?” asked the husband breathless with excitement. Clearly, it was one of those turning points in his life because that was the time he remembers the transformation in his image. The time he became the go-to-guy in the extended family. Suddenly, all his young uncles and their friends could bank on the lanky, shy eight year old boy to tell them all about Cricket. He had every player’s statistics at his fingertips. He had an audience for his gospel on batting techniques and strategic fours and sixes. Through all the frenzy, one special hero emerged: Kapil Dev. Kapil Dev was the hero for an entire generation. How many times have boys fought over who can be the Kapil Dev in their roadside matches?

Life moves on, however. Memories recede to farther and farther corners of the brain and sometimes fade. Only we realize that some memories don’t fade. They simply lie there waiting to be awakened again. One such was the Kapil Dev memory. It so happened that the husband got to meet his childhood hero recently.

When he came home after meeting the Cricket legend, I asked him how the experience was and he said,
“You know? As a boy I dreamed of meeting Kapil Dev and never once did I stop to think what I would say to him if I did.” The strange thing is, the intervening years seem to have done nothing in that department. He continued, “I had all week knowing I was going to meet him and I still didn’t think about what I was going to say to him.”

A glassy look came over his eyes and he went on mute. There I was waiting to listen to the rest of whatever else happened at the tip of my chair, but there was nothing. The eager wife waiting for the hero-blessed-husband to chat was left wanting. There was silence. Well he was sipping his coffee, so the slurping noise filled the gaps but not much else. I prodded him gently by poking his ribs and yelling “HEY! ”

He “Uhhned?” and said, “It must be really hard being a celebrity. Imagine, I went there and told him it was nice to meet him, but my heart was thumping that it was nicer still to take a picture with him. That’s all most people were interested in. A picture to be posted on Facebook.”

But the husband brought up a good point. What do you say to the celebrities? They certainly inspire us to dare to dream, but what do the celebrities get out of the exchange?

The husband got this…..

The Lost Heart

Through nobody’s fault, I found myself in a state wanting to submit an entry for the 3-minute fiction contest on NPR with an afternoon to spare. Add a production problem at work, 2 unbathed children playing with mud and a hose in the backyard, and a hungry family to the mix and you have the components for story-telling complete. Obviously, I was using all of this as a perfect excuse to not sit and write something. But the husband would hear nothing of the sort and shoo-ed me away to write. The theme was to write a story in which a character finds an object that he or she has no intention of returning.

I wrote out more than a few stories. I had almost decided on this one, but the daughter was so disgusted by the story, that she would not let me send it in. I have written a good many stories for her age group over the past few years and she has always been my trusted reviewer and critic. I love discussing my writing with her. Sometimes, the insights she offers can only come from a child her age and yet seem far more reasoned than I had supposed from someone her age. So, I honored her and did not send this one in, but decided to put it up on my blog instead.

The Lost Heart

This story is about a young girl called Fibrill who found a heart. A human heart.

The object repulsed her, but she bent down and picked it up anyway like she usually did. This time, a longing engulfed her. The mass felt alien to her hands, but she persevered. She could give it to her mother and maybe that would make her happy. Yes that was it. She ran with the heart in her hands. She was running along the clouds as fast as her legs and the dead weight of the heart would allow her to. But the heart was not dead yet. It was still pulsing and throbbing.

As she burst into the kitchen through the back-door, her mother looked shocked. “What is this?”

“A human heart! A human heart….can you check if it is alive?”

“Oh dear. I wonder who is missing it. Give it to me.” said her mother rushing to her side.

Her mother touched the edge of her nose. She saw the familiar transformation as her nose turned blue and the electric blue from her nose tip spread to all the nerve endings in her body. “Fibrill! Give me the heart right now. There is still hope left.”

The shot of blue pulsed through the heart and Fibrill’s inside, but this time Fibrill did not part with the heart. It was her heart now.

The man, whose heart it was, lay limp on Earth below.

The daughter did not know the word, but I told her that the word she was looking for was ‘Morbid’. Her expression said it all. Never one to hold back, she said, “Amma – you usually write things that make people happy, how could you write this?”

“Didn’t this make you happy?”. I love needling her.

“No way! This makes no one happy. A heart is lovely – like this! ” she said indignantly and drew me a heart on a post-it note. I must say that is the way I like hearts too. Beautiful and full of throbbing love.

Please let me know what you think of the story.

PS: Ideally, I would have loved to finish the story differently, but the requirement was to have the person not return what they found.

The Crow Vs Grandfather Dilemma

Is your grandfather a crow?

I don’t know how many human children can answer that question unless they were sired by crows, which is rare.

Every parent, grand-parent, aunt, uncle or friend remembers some gems of baby talk from the children in their lives. I remember swelling like a balloon fish when the daughter sang her first song. I hadn’t known it then, but it was pure audacity calling it a song. It was gibberish, but precious gibberish all the same.

The daughter had trouble saying “Tha” as a baby. She seemed to think that “Ka” and “Tha” were the same. That would have been no problem at all if there was another word for grandfather in Tamil. It turns out that the Tamil word for ‘Grandfather’ has not one, but two “Tha”s. (“Thaatha“)

The child tried and tried and called him “Kaaka“. It was not an ideal replacement given that crows were inclined to respond every time and break their flight midway to answer her. (“Kaaka” means “Crow” in Tamil). So, every time, she hollered for a crow, the grandfather would answer, and the crows gradually learned to tell the difference. They had their little training programs written out that said, “If a child calls a crow when you fly over Latitude x and Longitude y, do not stop over. You are not welcome and will scare the child. Keep flying and stay productive. The resident grandfather there thinks he is a crow and will handle the situation. He responds to ‘Thaatha‘ and ‘Kaaka‘ ”

The crows and grandfathers were mutually happy with the situation, they waved to each other from afar and life chugged on.

The problem is that the training manual for the Crows has not been updated for several years now. Years passed, the child had a brother who is now stringing words together and this young man cannot say”Ka”. He can only say “Tha”.

Cars are Thars and Cows are Tows.

So, this little fellow stands in the garden and yells for a Crow (“Kaaka Kaaka!” he screams. The audience hears”Thaatha Thaatha!“) The crows fly on, while grandfathers respond.

All very confusing I tell you. Both Grandfathers and Crows need new training packets.

Grandfather or Crow (?) — Thaatha: Grandfather
Kaaka: crow

Let’s end on a bit of a tongue twisters for children, crows and grandfathers (kuttis, kaakas and thaathas) shall we?

The Thaakaa Kathai

Thaatha-ku Kaaka kathai

Kaaka-kku Thaatha kathai

Thaatha-kum Kaaka-kum Kutti kathai

Kutti-kum Kaaka-kum Thaatha kathai

Thaatha-kum Kutti-Kum Kaaka kathai

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